yellow petal falls

into oshun’s river,

flows golden

*

waterspirit awakens inside

our pores bloom with drumbeats

melodious skin

*

I cover my hair with

white cloth, bathe in amber water-

falls of drumspeaksound

*

intoxicated

by space and sighs

we travel

from neck to ankle

charting

our incompleteness

our

divine humanity

*

we dreamed

we dreamed

we dreamed

we could

make love

to music

ride high

on the sound

that     slips    off

leather and

mango wood

old

in its sap and

skin

*

purpleblueblackpurpleblueblackbeads

purple blue black

purple blue black beads

skins beads sweat beads skin

salt wet salt skin salt wet salt

tongue. teeth. thighs.

(c) Jessica Horn

You put the blame on me
I don’t remember doing wrong
Your gambling and drinking
Your womanising and flirting
Your problems and woes
Were all my fault
And you said you beat me because you loved me

I asked you why you did this
“You made me do it “you said
“I love you, that’s why I beat you”

I never knew love was like this
Maybe no one ever told me.
I thought love was loving and caring,
Laughter and happiness
Not this—a beating for love

I grew old in my heart
My love turned to fear and hate
I lived only in dread of that fist in my face
Why didn’t I go, why?
Because I loved you
And you said you loved me that’s why you beat me.
I cried myself to sleep, silently
So you wouldn’t hear in case I got another fist in my face.

Is this love?
A fist in the face
I must have dreamt the other love
The movie star love
The storybook love
The pure clean love
What have I done to deserve this?
This angry fist in my face.

The hand that beats me caresses me
I can’t move away
Can’t say what’s in my heart,
No one must know my shame
I lay there beaten inside, dead inside, hating inside, dying inside
Holding on to you- not in love but in fear
While dreading the morning because I’ll get another fist in my face
And you’ll whisper between the kisses, I beat you because I love you. Bull Shit!
(C) Mariska Taylor-Darko 2007

For more check out http://africanwomenspoetry.blogspot.com

Nyangoma begins her dance.
At first she starts slow building with each moment…but there is no order to her movements. They are scattered and disparate.
Djemebe and Doundoun.
Thunder and Lightning.
Energy.

And as the rain subsides (only just a little) Insomnia lies in anticipation watching as Nyangoma once again takes the lead. Another dance. Pink flamingo’s, fluttering mariposas, Rhapsody in Blue, Firebird suite. Perfectly arranged concerto’s.
Order.
Energy.

Insomnia is captivated and for a moment she can’t breathe. She is subsumed by the magic.

Then in an instant – Silence.

Nyangoma is gone.

And slowly my eyes begin to shut just as the sun begins to rise.

And in ways even she cannot yet understand Nyangoma has soothed Insomnia’s restless mind.

Her lids feel heavy as Nyangoma whispers

Sleep precious one. Sleep.

Let your body rest.

©SheRoxLox

That year, her grades dropped. It wasn’t a gentle decline. She went
from always being one of the three top performers across all her
subjects to hedging with failure. Because she didn’t loose her
unbending cheer, or fall off her sports teams, the teachers misread
her. Report cards would go home with the words “bad set of friends”
scrawled all over them, or “teenage tantrums” in the case of teachers
who thought they should have had a prestigious career in the world of
Psychology, rather than rub chalk off their fingers with damp cloths
at the end of a 45 minute class period.

Not wanting to worsen her situation or call attention to the real
reasons for her disruption, she kept quiet. Her mother would badger
her about the;

“49 % in mathematics”

“50% in physics”

“48% in biology”,

finger running over the rows and columns filled with
teacher’s script.  Later, when she learnt how to use a computer, she
wondered at why there was no font called “Teacher”. Some geek had made
a big mistake there: Cartoon, Times New Roman, but no Teacher….
Strange for sure.

“I am doing my very best Ma”, was her thoughtful, respectful reply.
“O’ Levels are so much tougher than the junior certificate”. She
didn’t want to further fray any already torn nerves. Her mother had
that distracted way about her today. A storm was already gathering in
the corners of her eyes. If pressed, there would be an unbearable gush
of salty blobs of sadness and rage.

Her parents were fighting. Not the verbal assaults she heard Sue-Ellen
and J.R. hurl at each over the radio versions of Dallas and Dynasty.
Their television set had long been sold off to pay debts that had been
raised by a truant uncle. Ever the faithful head of the family, they
had been underwritten with the surety of her father’s name.  Her
mother was fury itself. She had bought their first colour TV with her
own pay cheque. Money saved in the cup of her bra, with the elastic on
the left strap drawn tight to ensure the special loot didn’t slither.
How could that lout of a mean ass brother-in-law do this to her and
the kids? But the laws of the land did not allow women to own property
so it had been purchased in her father’s name. And now the Collector
of Debts had stood in the family home as if presiding over an auction.
Clipboard in hand and hip thrust out in a posture of false efficiency,
he had taken her TV set.

It was an outright brawl. Blows and blood. Her school friends talked
openly about their parents’ fights. They spoke of well-educated
fathers having affairs with old flames that had returned home from
England in the aftermath of independence deft on reclaiming their
rightful place as his original love, his true soul mate.  Men who had
been sent to school by wives who took any job, every job that would
pay, and in the process sacrificed their own career dreams. She never
said a word.

That was what freedom meant. Smokey voices coming over the telephone
line at home asking “is your father in?” “ In you maybe”, was the
answer she wanted to give. But she had been raised polite, so she said
with diplomacy. “I am very sorry, no. May I take your name and number
and ask him to ring you back please?”.
“Umm-haa,” the voice exhaled, suppressing a mist of tobacco soot. The
telephone would click dead but she’d stay on the line, reached for the
message pad and pen nodding into nothingness. “ You are welcome”, she
said to the dumb drone in her ear. Anything less would have flared her
watchful mother to respond. It was pointless really, to add fuel to an
already blazing fire.

Her world had become a private war zone, punctuated by the gruff
staccato of a dress ripping as roughness grabbed the sleeve in combat.
From the battlefield, she would retrieve and stitch back together
amputated clothes.  No matter how hard she scrubbed, she could never
quite get the spotting out of the chipped butter cup yellow tiles in
the kitchen walls. When they had bought the family home in the suburbs
newly opened to blacks at independence in the multiracial
neighbourhoods the granite topped counters were a major selling point
for the agent. “Quick sale this, owners are packed and want to leave
the country. It has gone to the dogs, hey. They are off to Australia,”
the sales agent rattled on in a raspy English that reminded her of the
sound of a knife slicing lemons for the gin and tonics.

Over the years, the granite had cracked. The smack of the butt of the
axe had left a birthmark. She had ducked its wood cutting blow but the
bottle of cooking oil she held in her hand, between left thumb and
forefinger, had shattered her sure footedness. Her head hit the razor
sharp corner of the counter, and twisted her into a fall. The coroner,
a spindly specimen of a man, who wore tortoise shelled glasses that
were flanked by thick, grey eyebrows, said, in a dry, unemotional
tone, “it wasn’t the head injury that killed her, or the glass that
had pierced clean through her lung, to the top tip of her heart. The
most important muscle in her body had somehow calcified into a mass of
stone”. Only then did his brows move, perplexed by this impossible
puzzle of biology. He was itching to write a case-study. But the
family needed the body for the funeral.

Looking at the weather beaten tombstone over her mother’s grave. She
wanted, today, as she did everyday, to edit the ridiculous poetry of
the epitaph etched in curly, even letters.

R.I.P, Beloved
Sister,

Wife,
Mother, friend,

To “you should have left him and lived”.

(c) Isabella Matambanadzo 2010

I have always been fascinated by the particular art form that is sometimes referred to as ‘protest art.’ While quite broad, this art form is often associated with the signs and banners used in demonstrations, marches, and public rallies. I suppose what I love most about this particular artform are the ways in which it challenges mainstream ideas of ‘good art’ and the opportunities it provides for women to become engaged as artists regardless of age, education, colour, class or social background.  I especially love the ways in which it builds solidarity and sistren connections as women take to the streets to advocate for the issues that mean the most for their lives.

This month, as sisters across the continent and dawtas across the diaspora prepare to celebrate the 100th anniversary of International Women’s Day and International Women’s History Month, it is truly fascinating to witness the creative ways that women are using art to speak up for themselves and in very unassuming ways showcasing their talent and creativity.  And so, I wonder how are you as a feminist and an artist are using your own art to drive change? Whether it is designing a logo, or a poster, creating a cartoon, being part of a tapestry, or signing a banner to support a particular campaign – how are you getting involved?

Welcome child

To Azali Isisa

I welcome you child

I welcome you to our world

Forgive us it is not very tidy

We are doing our best

But we found it quite messy

Hope you will help us face the madness

I welcome you child

With every joy and happiness

With songs with food

I welcome you child I welcome you to our world

I feel like telling the whole universe

Be ready

Another one of us is born

Here she comes among us

Another bearer of the torch

Another painter of smiles

Another changemaker

I welcome you child

To live long enough to challenge

Your grand children’s children

To grow to be strong in you body and in your mind

To face the many struggles awaiting our people

I welcome you child

To bring us some sanity from where you came from

To renew our spirit of love and kindness

To be the pride of the African

As we witness your purity

May all people around you be in touch with the miracle of their own birth

If it is true that each of us is somebody child

Each of us is somebody’s child

Like you

© Coumba Toure

Whack!

Whack!

A lash rips her skin open

Slut!

Comes out of the prodigal tongue

Of her loving father’s mouth

Whack!

I shudder at the sound of another lash

Tongue tied

Mother and I watch, immobilized

Like marble frozen, mute!

Whack!

Heart pounding, mouth dry

I close my eyes and will my tears to roll

A floodgate of memory of humiliation,

Mine, hers, ours!

Whack!

Another lash, harsher than the previous

A sound I can no longer bear to hear

In a furor of action I mingle, angry

No longer stupefied!

Whack!

Tables turn a switch grabbed and flung at him

It misses!

Rancor settles at the sound of her voice

No more…

A shudder…

Inexplicable sense of guilt

All this cruelty as punishment

For the most natural of all emotions

And we let it happen?

Frustrated…

Teeth clenched we claw and rake

Root it out we call and sing together

Impotent ‘tis his turn for stupor

Pride plummeted!

© Demere Kitunga

Siasa gani hii?

Jicho limefunga

Shavu limevimba

Mguu unachechemea

Michubuko mwili mzima!

Kulikoni ndugu rafiki?

Aah! Utelezi

Jana usiku gizani

Maji yakichuruzika sakafuni

Nikateleza nikaangukia kisiki!

Ah! Kisiki ndani ya nyumba?

Uongo mwingine…

Nyuma ya pazia jembamba

Ningesemaje?

Juzi nikabururwa hadharani

Hamkuingilia!

Ni ugomvi wao wa  ndani

Niliwasikia mkisema

Nikajiona dhalili!

Mliposhika midomo yenu

Mkinicheka…

Leo mwataka niseme nini?

Wacha nivumilie vitendo vyake

Niifunike aibu yangu na yenu

Ndani ya ukimya huu

Pamoja na uongo huu

Tunaouishi!

Hizi ndizo zetu mila

Ndivyo wanavyotufunda

Ndio wetu utamaduni

Na yetu maadili pia

Lakini niambie ndugu rafiki….

Mila na utamaduni wa nani?

Na hayo maadili?

Yanamlinda nani?

Siasa gani hii…

Yenye mambo ya nje na ya ndani?

Inayohalalisha ukatili!

© Demere Kitunga